See the site here
Not everything has to go right. The pani puri, for example, might not turn out to be the best you've had. The weather may not turn out to be the fairest. The ice cream might just melt too soon. You might find yourself uncomfortably in the middle of a rather annoying dust storm. You might miss a few turns in the confusing roundabout that is India Gate...
A thousand things might go wrong.
And still your heart might be glad. And there might be a smile on your lips and a song in your heart. Because the bike purred like a kitten. Because the two of you looked like priceless eggheads thump-thump-ing your way around town. Because the conversation didn't take doing and the silences were comfortable. Because the fish was cooked just right and the cheesecake was delectable. Because she looked at you like you looked at her and both of you laughed. Because laughing, and being happy, seemed like the most natural thing to do. Because, nearing midnight, neither of you wanted to go home...
A thousand things might turn out just right.
Some days are perfect because they just are! And two in a row? I ain't complaining :-)
A thousand things might go wrong.
And still your heart might be glad. And there might be a smile on your lips and a song in your heart. Because the bike purred like a kitten. Because the two of you looked like priceless eggheads thump-thump-ing your way around town. Because the conversation didn't take doing and the silences were comfortable. Because the fish was cooked just right and the cheesecake was delectable. Because she looked at you like you looked at her and both of you laughed. Because laughing, and being happy, seemed like the most natural thing to do. Because, nearing midnight, neither of you wanted to go home...
A thousand things might turn out just right.
Some days are perfect because they just are! And two in a row? I ain't complaining :-)
Falling in love, like pretty much everything else in life, is 50% timing. Apocryphal, you say? Perhaps, but allow me to explain.
Call it what you will, but there's something to be said about all the planets lining up just so and how often does that happen, really? What's more likely to happen, of course, is that you'll meet the woman of your dreams in an overcrowded train compartment and find out she's moving to Glasgow the week after. Or worse, has already been spoken for and is getting married before the month is out. A tad extreme, do I hear you say? But even the most cynical of you will agree that the odds are stacked overwhelmingly against your meeting someone interesting to find that she's available. Most likely she's already seeing someone more convenient.
Oh and then there's the other one, isn't there? The kicker. You like her and she likes you but there's someone inconvenient involved and chances are this thing will get messier than a freeway pile up before it sorts itself out. If you're lucky, of course!
I'm sure the planets think this is some sort of hilarious cosmic joke, pretending to align themselves and lure you into dropping your guard before executing a perfect, last minute somersault that leads, inexorably, to what has already been described as the kicker.
Then again, life (and love) would be a lot less adventurous were it not for the planets and their petty little games. Adventure should count for something, certainly, no?
Not convinced, yet, eh? My arguments do not ring the tiniest bells of familiarity in your mind? Time for a couple of illustrative examples then, methinks.
Business. The Apple Newton, 1992. A PDA so ahead of its time it almost sank the company practically even before it hit the market.
Sports. Sachin Tendulkar, 1989. A woefully nervous debutant plays a delectably timed lofted drive, only delectably timed straight down the throat of long on, and puts paid to his debut almost before it gets noticed.
Science. Albert Einstein, 1905. A clerk at the German patents office proposes an idea so wildly ahead of his time he is ridiculed by all and sundry and his career as a leading light is almost over even before it has begun.
Examples abound but I'm not in an obliging mood. After all, you can do your own research, can't you? In fact, if you're not convinced yet then life's been uncommonly kind to you and I don't stand a chance anyway.
Then again, then again, Apple's still around and so is Sachin. And Einstein, as we all know, went on to win the Nobel prize only a few years later. In the words of Anna Quindlen, sometimes all you need to do is show up. Impossibly. Again and again.
So I'm going to show up, and listen and try to smile. Showing up should count for something, certainly, no?
After all, timing's only half the story, innit? Hehh heh ;)
Call it what you will, but there's something to be said about all the planets lining up just so and how often does that happen, really? What's more likely to happen, of course, is that you'll meet the woman of your dreams in an overcrowded train compartment and find out she's moving to Glasgow the week after. Or worse, has already been spoken for and is getting married before the month is out. A tad extreme, do I hear you say? But even the most cynical of you will agree that the odds are stacked overwhelmingly against your meeting someone interesting to find that she's available. Most likely she's already seeing someone more convenient.
Oh and then there's the other one, isn't there? The kicker. You like her and she likes you but there's someone inconvenient involved and chances are this thing will get messier than a freeway pile up before it sorts itself out. If you're lucky, of course!
I'm sure the planets think this is some sort of hilarious cosmic joke, pretending to align themselves and lure you into dropping your guard before executing a perfect, last minute somersault that leads, inexorably, to what has already been described as the kicker.
Then again, life (and love) would be a lot less adventurous were it not for the planets and their petty little games. Adventure should count for something, certainly, no?
Not convinced, yet, eh? My arguments do not ring the tiniest bells of familiarity in your mind? Time for a couple of illustrative examples then, methinks.
Business. The Apple Newton, 1992. A PDA so ahead of its time it almost sank the company practically even before it hit the market.
Sports. Sachin Tendulkar, 1989. A woefully nervous debutant plays a delectably timed lofted drive, only delectably timed straight down the throat of long on, and puts paid to his debut almost before it gets noticed.
Science. Albert Einstein, 1905. A clerk at the German patents office proposes an idea so wildly ahead of his time he is ridiculed by all and sundry and his career as a leading light is almost over even before it has begun.
Examples abound but I'm not in an obliging mood. After all, you can do your own research, can't you? In fact, if you're not convinced yet then life's been uncommonly kind to you and I don't stand a chance anyway.
Then again, then again, Apple's still around and so is Sachin. And Einstein, as we all know, went on to win the Nobel prize only a few years later. In the words of Anna Quindlen, sometimes all you need to do is show up. Impossibly. Again and again.
So I'm going to show up, and listen and try to smile. Showing up should count for something, certainly, no?
After all, timing's only half the story, innit? Hehh heh ;)
When this guy howls 'Evil', he means Evil!
There's a video of a live gig floating around on YouTube that's got some superlative footage, but I just like the way he says Evil on the original 1968 version better...
_____
It's a long way from home,
Can't sleep at night.
Call on your telephone;
Something just ain't right.
That's evil, evil is going on wrong.
I want to warn you brother,
You better watch your happy home.
You make it to your house,
Knock on the front door,
Run 'round to the back;
You'll catch him just before he goes.
That's evil, evil is going on.
I have warned you brother,
You better watch your happy home.
If you call on the telephone
And she answers long and slow,
Grab the first thing smoking
And you have to haul her home.
That's evil, evil is going on wrong.
I have warned you brother,
You better watch your happy home.
_____
There's a video of a live gig floating around on YouTube that's got some superlative footage, but I just like the way he says Evil on the original 1968 version better...
_____
It's a long way from home,
Can't sleep at night.
Call on your telephone;
Something just ain't right.
That's evil, evil is going on wrong.
I want to warn you brother,
You better watch your happy home.
You make it to your house,
Knock on the front door,
Run 'round to the back;
You'll catch him just before he goes.
That's evil, evil is going on.
I have warned you brother,
You better watch your happy home.
If you call on the telephone
And she answers long and slow,
Grab the first thing smoking
And you have to haul her home.
That's evil, evil is going on wrong.
I have warned you brother,
You better watch your happy home.
_____
I
For being a kindred spirit
And for always being with it
For the many cups of coffee
And for ruining me financially
For the constant 5S tango
And, lastly, for Jango
Thank You.
II
For 4am conversations
And for sweet consternation
For 5Qs, answered truthfully
And for details, disclosed ruefully
For being my own private happy dope
And, lastly, for hope
Thank You.
_____
You both know who you are :)
For being a kindred spirit
And for always being with it
For the many cups of coffee
And for ruining me financially
For the constant 5S tango
And, lastly, for Jango
Thank You.
II
For 4am conversations
And for sweet consternation
For 5Qs, answered truthfully
And for details, disclosed ruefully
For being my own private happy dope
And, lastly, for hope
Thank You.
_____
You both know who you are :)
As he stood there with his eyes closed, the wind tearing at his clothes and hair, he could feel the million tiny lances break against his skin and die. Each prick like the desperate thrust of a dying soldier in an army a million strong. Each prick sending ripples of masochistic pleasure seering through his body.
He stood there, shivering, as the cold rain sent down wave after relentless wave of tiny soldiers to break against him and die. He could feel the ache washing away. He could feel his fatigue slough off like dead skin. Cold and reptilian.
He stood there listening to a million dying sighs. He heard them all - each sigh - fashioning himself a new skin crafted from their dying echoes.
He stood there feeling each epicenter as a million tiny shockwaves exploded on him. In him. He soaked them all up - each little supernova - fashioning a soul crafted from their dying embers.
Right then, if someone had asked him, he'd have said this was the happiest he'd ever been. The joy of life a newborn might feel. An infant who's never tasted death, disappointment and despair.
And as he turned his unseeing eyes heavenward he couldn't help thinking that if there is a god this must be Him. And he smiled.
He stood there, shivering, as the cold rain sent down wave after relentless wave of tiny soldiers to break against him and die. He could feel the ache washing away. He could feel his fatigue slough off like dead skin. Cold and reptilian.
He stood there listening to a million dying sighs. He heard them all - each sigh - fashioning himself a new skin crafted from their dying echoes.
He stood there feeling each epicenter as a million tiny shockwaves exploded on him. In him. He soaked them all up - each little supernova - fashioning a soul crafted from their dying embers.
Right then, if someone had asked him, he'd have said this was the happiest he'd ever been. The joy of life a newborn might feel. An infant who's never tasted death, disappointment and despair.
And as he turned his unseeing eyes heavenward he couldn't help thinking that if there is a god this must be Him. And he smiled.
I knew it.
I knew how she felt. Overweight, bland and well past her prime. Definitely not a pretty sight to behold. I pitied her sometimes, then immediately chided myself for giving in to that abominable emotion, even if it seemed quite warranted under the circumstances.
Miss Amy, for that was her name, had been with the Iyers for as long as I can remember. I first met the Iyers when they had just shifted to my city, about two decades back, from Bangalore where Mr. Iyer owned a small firm manufacturing custom built electronic circuits. Apparently, he'd made a sizeable fortune when he'd sold off his baby to a much larger concern that specialised in making money out of such takeovers. The Iyers had moved to Bombay and Miss Amy had come with them. Or, at least, that is how I remember the facts to be.
Mr. Iyer was a small, wiry man, full of energy and an inexhaustible treasure trove of knowledge when it came to matters concerning his line of work. That's not to imply that he was less informed about other things, just that his was a one-track mind dedicated, almost entirely, to his work. Mrs. Iyer was the perfect foil. Small, like her husband, but an altogether different person. Comely of appearance, amiable, talkative, sometimes frivolous, but always a very likeable woman indeed. The Iyers had but one son, Suresh. A moody, cranky little child with a propensity to moisten his seat every few erratic minutes. A kid who's company I didn't quite come around to enjoying until he was much older.
And then there was Miss Amy. I've never known her last name; in fact I'm not quite sure that she even has one.
Amy was large and buxom. Even in her prime she was certainly not cut to a model's fashion size. Large boned, I think, would be the politically correct term to describe Miss Amy. A high shoulder line, wide flanks, large mouth and two perfectly round eyes that peered from behind a pair of slightly chipped and foggy lenses. And a very tall stance that she used to really good effect when dealing with others of her kind. She wasn't pretty, not by a mile. But she had a certain air of solid dependability that was quite endearing. She was also gifted with a sense of tolerant affection for the Iyers and their idiosyncrasies and that of other people she came in touch with, through the Iyers. Yes, it was difficult not to grow to love Miss Amy if you had the opportunity to get to know her.
She was Mr. Iyer's right hand, so to speak. The ambassador of the family, if you like. She was always at their beck and call, whether the lady of the house needed someone to go shopping with her or Suresh needed picking up from school early for some reason. She was there at the airport if Mr. Iyer had important business guests coming over. And she was there if Mrs. Iyers second cousin, who was visiting with her family, needed someone to take them around Bombay and acquaint them with the sights and the sounds that make the city so alluring to casual tourists. In short, Miss Amy was quite indispensable to the Iyers. And she, for her part, was quite happy to be that way. All year round, at any time of the day or night, Miss Amy was always available.
But Amy wasn't omnipotent. She had her Achilles' Heal, Oh! Yes, just like everyone else. You see, Miss Amy hated the monsoons. She loathed the time of the year that the skies would open up, with all her heart and soul (Yes, it's not unlikely to imagine her having one). She despised the waterlogged streets. She abhorred the slush and muck, and the stench pit that Bombay is during the rains. But her pet peeve was the horde of nameless, homeless children that would take to the flooded city streets to wallow in the singular fun of a most decidedly awkward game of street football. At these times Miss Amy would withdraw into a little shell of her own. She would be moody and cranky and quite inconsolable. It often seemed that she regarded the monsoons as nature's cruel joke on her. She would hack and cough and splutter during her errands and for those four or five months of the year the Iyers would have to treat her with kid-gloved hands. And I think Amy basked in all that attention. Though, from the look of it, her discomfort seemed quite genuine, I think she permitted herself a quiet, indulgent smile in the heart of her hearts, from time to time, when Mr. Iyer spoke to her kindly, if no one was looking, in an attempt to lift her spirits a bit or when Mrs. Iyer would go shopping alone in respectful deference to her under-the-weather mood.
All said, the Iyers had always seemed like the perfect household.
And then, about 8 months back, something happened that turned the Iyer household upside down and reduced Amy to the state we find her in today. I still remember the day like it was yesterday. It started out like a perfectly normal July day in Bombay. Slightly overcast and muggy, not the most perfect of days, but a perfectly normal day nonetheless. Mr. Iyer was at work, having left early in the morning as was his custom. Mrs. Iyer was at a neighbour's enjoying a kitty party with some of the women in the locality. And Miss Amy was moping around in the Iyer's garage having made an early morning sortie to the airport, on this abominably muggy day, to drop off Suresh, now all of twenty two, who was on his way to the Gulf to take up a new job that had just come his way. The rain, that had started as a lazy drizzle around mid-morning, had turned into a veritable downpour by a quarter to three. The sun had all but disappeared behind the clouds, giving Amy fresh cause to hurl silent derogatories at the powers that be for having created something as redundant as the monsoons.
Just as the clock approached the hour, Amy thought she heard voices in the distance. It sounded like someone was in distress, but Amy was in no mood to investigate the matter. Soon however, she realised that the voices were getting closer, and for a moment even thought that she could recognise one or two of them. Her curiosity was aroused. She was deciding whether she should be venturing out to investigate when she saw them. The distressed voices. Or rather, the panicky people responsible for the distressed voices. There was Mrs. Ahuja, with her ample bulk, her bosom heaving to a frantic rhythm as she panted from the effort of having to run and scream at the same time. There was the lithe and lissome Shalini, who even in her time of panic, looked to be traipsing along, at least when compared to the obviously out-of-shape Mrs. Ahuja. There were five or six other women as well, all in various states of panic, all shrieking like banshees and most importantly, all who were, at this moment, supposed to be at the party with Mrs. Iyer. And they were heading straight for Miss Amy.
The horde burst upon Miss Amy in a cacophony of confused and tangled voices, and while neither was addressed directly to her, Amy surmised that something terrible had happened. Apparently, Mrs. Iyer had had a stroke and the desperate women, after trying to contact Mr. Iyer at work and failing, had decided to press Miss Amy into service. For the briefest of moments, as Amy confided in me later, the thought of having to go outdoors on a day like this sent a convulsive shudder through her body. But this was a life and death situation, after all, and not a time to worry about trivialities like the weather. So Amy took the task upon herself, quite willingly I may add, and set off for the hospital with Mrs. Iyers limp form and the corpulent and sweaty Mrs. Ahuja in command.
The rest of the afternoon and evening passed by in a blur, as Amy found herself running from hospital to diagnostic center to chemist shop, with this person or the other, in driving rain through waterlogged streets trying to focus on getting the work done. Trying her best to shun the horrible thought of breaking down from fatigue, at a time like this, from her distraught mind. But she managed. Broken of body and fatigued of mind, she'd held off against the odds until 8pm, when Mr. Iyer arrived. The hospital had finally managed to get a call through to his office and he'd rushed there as fast as the traffic would allow.
In a couple of days Mrs. Iyer was back home, recuperating, but in all the commotion no one had given a thought to poor Miss Amy. Her personal adventure, insignificant though it may have been in comparison to Mrs. Iyer's life threatening ordeal, had dealt her a debilitating blow. Her ageing body, racked with pains, had all but given up and just rousing herself in the morning to greet the new day seemed like too much of an effort. She nursed herself quietly into a shell that, eventually, she refused to come out of. She felt old. Really old. And helpless. And hopeless.
Months passed and Amy still moped. The well oiled machine that was the Iyer household was thrown into disarray, what with the right hand out of action. Mr. Iyer tried to talk Amy out of her depression. Mrs. Iyer, for her part, called in all the specialists she could muster. I, for one, could think of nothing more useful to do than stand at the sidelines and watch the sorry affair. But the prognosis looked grim indeed. Amy had reached the end of the line. The bastion of the Iyer household was now nothing more than a shadow of her former self. The Iyers tried to go about life normally, but without Amy they were like a bunch of paddle-boaters thrown together in a sailboat. Things had come to a head and something was bound to give, eventually.
And give it did! Late one night the Iyers were roused by the frantic ringing of the telephone. Suresh was calling to say he was coming to visit, and as a special gift for his father he was bringing in a brand new right hand for the family. A few days later Suresh arrived in person, and in tow was a gorgeous young thing all dressed in red. His gift to his father. She was obviously prettier than Amy. An angular face, well toned body, pert lips and sharp, piercing eyes. And the gorgeous, gorgeous red! And a better performer too, when push came to shove, according to Suresh. Everyone was enamoured by the new arrival, and I must admit, for a while, so was I. And amidst the entire hullabaloo Miss Amy kept getting miserabler and miserabler.
But the writing, as they say, was on the wall. Miss Amy had served the family well, and now it was time for her to go. I shed a quiet tear for old Amy. I had become quite fond of the girl over the years. For the Iyer household though, the days of the Ambassador were over. The men from the garage had already been asked to come pick her up; there was a new Honda in the house now!
I knew how she felt. Overweight, bland and well past her prime. Definitely not a pretty sight to behold. I pitied her sometimes, then immediately chided myself for giving in to that abominable emotion, even if it seemed quite warranted under the circumstances.
Miss Amy, for that was her name, had been with the Iyers for as long as I can remember. I first met the Iyers when they had just shifted to my city, about two decades back, from Bangalore where Mr. Iyer owned a small firm manufacturing custom built electronic circuits. Apparently, he'd made a sizeable fortune when he'd sold off his baby to a much larger concern that specialised in making money out of such takeovers. The Iyers had moved to Bombay and Miss Amy had come with them. Or, at least, that is how I remember the facts to be.
Mr. Iyer was a small, wiry man, full of energy and an inexhaustible treasure trove of knowledge when it came to matters concerning his line of work. That's not to imply that he was less informed about other things, just that his was a one-track mind dedicated, almost entirely, to his work. Mrs. Iyer was the perfect foil. Small, like her husband, but an altogether different person. Comely of appearance, amiable, talkative, sometimes frivolous, but always a very likeable woman indeed. The Iyers had but one son, Suresh. A moody, cranky little child with a propensity to moisten his seat every few erratic minutes. A kid who's company I didn't quite come around to enjoying until he was much older.
And then there was Miss Amy. I've never known her last name; in fact I'm not quite sure that she even has one.
Amy was large and buxom. Even in her prime she was certainly not cut to a model's fashion size. Large boned, I think, would be the politically correct term to describe Miss Amy. A high shoulder line, wide flanks, large mouth and two perfectly round eyes that peered from behind a pair of slightly chipped and foggy lenses. And a very tall stance that she used to really good effect when dealing with others of her kind. She wasn't pretty, not by a mile. But she had a certain air of solid dependability that was quite endearing. She was also gifted with a sense of tolerant affection for the Iyers and their idiosyncrasies and that of other people she came in touch with, through the Iyers. Yes, it was difficult not to grow to love Miss Amy if you had the opportunity to get to know her.
She was Mr. Iyer's right hand, so to speak. The ambassador of the family, if you like. She was always at their beck and call, whether the lady of the house needed someone to go shopping with her or Suresh needed picking up from school early for some reason. She was there at the airport if Mr. Iyer had important business guests coming over. And she was there if Mrs. Iyers second cousin, who was visiting with her family, needed someone to take them around Bombay and acquaint them with the sights and the sounds that make the city so alluring to casual tourists. In short, Miss Amy was quite indispensable to the Iyers. And she, for her part, was quite happy to be that way. All year round, at any time of the day or night, Miss Amy was always available.
But Amy wasn't omnipotent. She had her Achilles' Heal, Oh! Yes, just like everyone else. You see, Miss Amy hated the monsoons. She loathed the time of the year that the skies would open up, with all her heart and soul (Yes, it's not unlikely to imagine her having one). She despised the waterlogged streets. She abhorred the slush and muck, and the stench pit that Bombay is during the rains. But her pet peeve was the horde of nameless, homeless children that would take to the flooded city streets to wallow in the singular fun of a most decidedly awkward game of street football. At these times Miss Amy would withdraw into a little shell of her own. She would be moody and cranky and quite inconsolable. It often seemed that she regarded the monsoons as nature's cruel joke on her. She would hack and cough and splutter during her errands and for those four or five months of the year the Iyers would have to treat her with kid-gloved hands. And I think Amy basked in all that attention. Though, from the look of it, her discomfort seemed quite genuine, I think she permitted herself a quiet, indulgent smile in the heart of her hearts, from time to time, when Mr. Iyer spoke to her kindly, if no one was looking, in an attempt to lift her spirits a bit or when Mrs. Iyer would go shopping alone in respectful deference to her under-the-weather mood.
All said, the Iyers had always seemed like the perfect household.
And then, about 8 months back, something happened that turned the Iyer household upside down and reduced Amy to the state we find her in today. I still remember the day like it was yesterday. It started out like a perfectly normal July day in Bombay. Slightly overcast and muggy, not the most perfect of days, but a perfectly normal day nonetheless. Mr. Iyer was at work, having left early in the morning as was his custom. Mrs. Iyer was at a neighbour's enjoying a kitty party with some of the women in the locality. And Miss Amy was moping around in the Iyer's garage having made an early morning sortie to the airport, on this abominably muggy day, to drop off Suresh, now all of twenty two, who was on his way to the Gulf to take up a new job that had just come his way. The rain, that had started as a lazy drizzle around mid-morning, had turned into a veritable downpour by a quarter to three. The sun had all but disappeared behind the clouds, giving Amy fresh cause to hurl silent derogatories at the powers that be for having created something as redundant as the monsoons.
Just as the clock approached the hour, Amy thought she heard voices in the distance. It sounded like someone was in distress, but Amy was in no mood to investigate the matter. Soon however, she realised that the voices were getting closer, and for a moment even thought that she could recognise one or two of them. Her curiosity was aroused. She was deciding whether she should be venturing out to investigate when she saw them. The distressed voices. Or rather, the panicky people responsible for the distressed voices. There was Mrs. Ahuja, with her ample bulk, her bosom heaving to a frantic rhythm as she panted from the effort of having to run and scream at the same time. There was the lithe and lissome Shalini, who even in her time of panic, looked to be traipsing along, at least when compared to the obviously out-of-shape Mrs. Ahuja. There were five or six other women as well, all in various states of panic, all shrieking like banshees and most importantly, all who were, at this moment, supposed to be at the party with Mrs. Iyer. And they were heading straight for Miss Amy.
The horde burst upon Miss Amy in a cacophony of confused and tangled voices, and while neither was addressed directly to her, Amy surmised that something terrible had happened. Apparently, Mrs. Iyer had had a stroke and the desperate women, after trying to contact Mr. Iyer at work and failing, had decided to press Miss Amy into service. For the briefest of moments, as Amy confided in me later, the thought of having to go outdoors on a day like this sent a convulsive shudder through her body. But this was a life and death situation, after all, and not a time to worry about trivialities like the weather. So Amy took the task upon herself, quite willingly I may add, and set off for the hospital with Mrs. Iyers limp form and the corpulent and sweaty Mrs. Ahuja in command.
The rest of the afternoon and evening passed by in a blur, as Amy found herself running from hospital to diagnostic center to chemist shop, with this person or the other, in driving rain through waterlogged streets trying to focus on getting the work done. Trying her best to shun the horrible thought of breaking down from fatigue, at a time like this, from her distraught mind. But she managed. Broken of body and fatigued of mind, she'd held off against the odds until 8pm, when Mr. Iyer arrived. The hospital had finally managed to get a call through to his office and he'd rushed there as fast as the traffic would allow.
In a couple of days Mrs. Iyer was back home, recuperating, but in all the commotion no one had given a thought to poor Miss Amy. Her personal adventure, insignificant though it may have been in comparison to Mrs. Iyer's life threatening ordeal, had dealt her a debilitating blow. Her ageing body, racked with pains, had all but given up and just rousing herself in the morning to greet the new day seemed like too much of an effort. She nursed herself quietly into a shell that, eventually, she refused to come out of. She felt old. Really old. And helpless. And hopeless.
Months passed and Amy still moped. The well oiled machine that was the Iyer household was thrown into disarray, what with the right hand out of action. Mr. Iyer tried to talk Amy out of her depression. Mrs. Iyer, for her part, called in all the specialists she could muster. I, for one, could think of nothing more useful to do than stand at the sidelines and watch the sorry affair. But the prognosis looked grim indeed. Amy had reached the end of the line. The bastion of the Iyer household was now nothing more than a shadow of her former self. The Iyers tried to go about life normally, but without Amy they were like a bunch of paddle-boaters thrown together in a sailboat. Things had come to a head and something was bound to give, eventually.
And give it did! Late one night the Iyers were roused by the frantic ringing of the telephone. Suresh was calling to say he was coming to visit, and as a special gift for his father he was bringing in a brand new right hand for the family. A few days later Suresh arrived in person, and in tow was a gorgeous young thing all dressed in red. His gift to his father. She was obviously prettier than Amy. An angular face, well toned body, pert lips and sharp, piercing eyes. And the gorgeous, gorgeous red! And a better performer too, when push came to shove, according to Suresh. Everyone was enamoured by the new arrival, and I must admit, for a while, so was I. And amidst the entire hullabaloo Miss Amy kept getting miserabler and miserabler.
But the writing, as they say, was on the wall. Miss Amy had served the family well, and now it was time for her to go. I shed a quiet tear for old Amy. I had become quite fond of the girl over the years. For the Iyer household though, the days of the Ambassador were over. The men from the garage had already been asked to come pick her up; there was a new Honda in the house now!
In December of 2008 I moved from Ahmedabad, where I had spent a happy but restless five years, to Noida. In keeping with the spirit of let's-just-do-this-and-we-shall-see-how-it-turns-out that seemed to govern my actions in those days I decided that I would make the trip by bike. All eleven hundred kilometers of it.
A few days back I chanced upon the little notebook that I carried with me on the trip and scribbled brief notes to myself in. To me it made interesting reading and allowed me to relive the trip and the accompanying excitement, fatigue and, eventually, relief on having made it to my destination two days after I started out.
For those of you who ride, yourselves, it might make interesting reading too, and bring back memories of similar trips you may have undertaken and similar emotions you may have experienced. I reproduce it below, slightly edited to make for easier reading, to record it for posterity if nothing else.
_____
DAY 1
9.45am
Start from Ahmedabad. Late as usual. Damn! The odometer reads at 10,440km
11.15am
First break at Himmatnagar. The roads were a breeze and the winter sun was out in full splendour. Perfect riding weather. The bike, though, took a while warming up to the task. Thankfully the cumbersomely tied rucksack has held fast to the luggage carrier. So far. Distance covered in this leg 90km. Odometer 10,530km
11.25am
Back on the road. Plan to keep riding until my butt and back give up, and then stop for lunch.
12.45pm
Lunch stop. Solitary dhaba somewhere on the way to Udaipur. The place doesn't even have a name and the proprieter seems less than amicable. Ah well. The insipid dal chawal doesn't do much for the system but its still fortification, right? Distance covered in this leg 90km. Odometer 10,620km
1.25pm
Sated. Almost. And back on the road. Full tilt ahead.
2.35pm
Chai stop. Another nameless place. The last several kilometers were terrible. The road, mostly. And, of course, the fatigue- on account of not having done this kind of riding for a while now. Butt and back are the epitome of agony. Change of plans- take a night halt at Udaipur about 10kms from here (as the chai shop guy informs me) and give my back a much deserved rest. Distance covered in this leg 80km. Odometer 10,700km
3.00pm
Longer break than I would've liked, but its back on the road for now. Thankfully Udaipur, and rest, is only a handful of kilometers away!
3.30pm
Udaipur! At last. Rest, sweet rest. Just checked into the Rani Palace Hotel near the center of town. The last 14kms were agony. And bad traffic, to boot. Who'd've thought this town boasts of so many vehicles?! Distance covered in this leg 14km. Odometer 10,714km
Haven't done anything like this for a couple of years now, and it shows. I've barely ridden 270 odd kilometers and my body's already in protest! Nothing an evening around town and a night's rest won't fix, though.
DAY 2
9.20am
I'm really out of practice; it took me almost 30 minutes to get my rucksack all trussed up on to the luggage carrier! Oh what I'd have given for a nice length of bungee cord instead of the cotton rope I'm using. The plan today is to get as far as Pushkar and call it a night. A stop at the Pink Floyd Cafe and Hotel should do me good. Their french onion soup is absolutely divine. So, up up and away...
9.55am
The cotton rope snapped! Within 20 kilometers of having started out! An unnecessary 20 minutes wasted getting it all up trussed up again. Distance covered in this leg 19km. Odometer 10,733km
11.16am
A longish stop for breakfast just off Nathdwara. The last hour was torture. Did all of 39kms in an entire hour. I don't think I've ridden much worse roads than these! Distance covered in this leg 39km. Odometer 10,772km
12.00noon
A couple of fags and just looking at the traffic go by is therapeutic. The dhaba guy tells me the road ahead is much better. Mad riding, here I come!
12.48pm
Three quarters of an hour and I don't see the road getting any better. Had to take this break to de-cramp my legs. Road, please get better! Distance covered in this leg 44km. Odometer 10,816km
2.48pm
Almost 2 hours of hard riding. Almost a hundred kilometers done. The road continues to harass me. This little dhaba just outside Jawaja seemed like a nice enough place to stop. And it is. The old guy sipping his tea and pufing away on a beedi is exceptionally chatty. Distance covered in this leg 94km. Odometer 10,910km
3.10pm
On the road again. Next stop Ajmer. Hopefully
4.30pm
A short stop just outside Ajmer. Figured it would be good before I enter the hustle and bustle of early evening town traffic. Distance covered in this leg 64km. Odometer 10,974km
5.30pm
Pushkar! And its beautiful in the winter evening light! Took me about an hour to get through the last 30 odd kilometers, which is par for the course, I suppose. Distance covered in this leg 37km. Odometer 11,011km
The hotel is just as I remember it from my last time here. Tucked away in a crowded nook and chock full of German and Israeli tourists. The winter evening air is refreshing and I certainly don't feel like I've ridden all day. Except for a mild reluctance to go anywhere near the bike, for today. The french onion soup was just as divine, as the last time around. The pasta and apple pie kinda hit the spot, too!
The other good thing is, of course, that I clocked a mildly healthy 300 kilometers today.
DAY 3
7.45am
Early start from Pushkar. Aim to make the most of the winter-morning sun. Also, quite some distance to cover before I hit Delhi. The guy at the hotel tells me I don't have to go back to Ajmer to rejoin NH8. In fact, there's a 70km stretch of newly built road that'll take me from Pushkar straight to the toll plaza on the Jaipur Expressway section of NH8. Does that mean my road troubles are finally over?
9.15am
Here I am, right outside the toll plaza, a shade over 70kms from Pushkar. The road was beautiful and I was tempted to push the bike to the max but the weather was even better. This trundling along bit in the winter sun is something I can get used to. Now for some breakfast. Distance covered in this leg 75km. Odometer 11,086km
9.50am
Fed and roaring to go. Expressway, here I come.
10.50am
Woohoo! That was good! Six lanes of uber-smooth tarmac, and a thumper between my thighs! Only an hour since I paid the toll and I'm already getting off the expressway towards the Jaipur bypass. The last 100 odd kilometers were the best road I've ever ridden on. Managed a top whack of 110kph but the euphoria was slightly dulled by the dude on the Yamaha R15 who zoomed past me like I was riding a bicycle! Distance covered in this leg 106km. Odometer 11,192km
1.00pm
Lunch stop at the Reliance outlet in the middle of nowhere. Or so it seems. Sure enough the roads went back to testing my patience the minute I got off the expressway! And they tell me this is the famed golden quadrilateral! Still, I think I made good time. Distance covered this leg 128km. Odometer 11,320km
2.00pm
Lunched and rested. The brief nap did me good. Ab Dilli door nahi ;)
3.40pm
Manesar, Haryana! Which means I'm spitting distance from Gurgaon, and then some to Delhi! The cigarette I'm smoking seems particularly sweet, and the sprite seems to have that extra zing! So close, now...
As an aside, you can never mistake Haryana for any other place. The difference is obvious the minute you cross the border from Rajasthan. The roads get a little bit rougher, the traffic a little bit wilder and the people a little more in-your-face than you've been used to for the last several hundred kilometers! Distance covered in this leg 100km. Odometer 11,420km
4.00pm
Last leg of the journey, one hopes. Its been brilliant so far, but very tiring. Perhaps I should do this more often, just to stay in shape...
5.00pm
I know I'm somewhere in New Delhi, but apart from that I'm hopelessly lost! The road signs, so far, have been less than helpful and everyone I've asked has had a different opinion on how I should get to Noida! I can't believe that after travelling a thousand kilometers, the last 50 are proving to be this painful...
6.15pm
I've ended up in Kalkaji, somehow. And even my painfully limited knowledge of the city tells me I'm on completely the wrong track. The traffic's absolutely the pits. My back is killing me and my patience is just about running out. I need deliverence. I need an angel to come show me the way to bloody Noida!
7.10pm
Noida! Finally! Blissfully! After much wandering over the last two and a half hours or so, I've finally made it. Thanks to the kind samaritan who rode with me all the way so I wouldn't keep getting lost. The sense of ecstasy, and relief, is indescribable. The pain is gone! I will get some food, shortly, and a bed to sleep in at night. As I stand here having a victory (sic) smoke I can make out the familiar sillhouette of Aby walking towards me. Distance covered in this leg 120km (!). Odometer 11,540km
If I had to pick three words to describe my last three days, I'd probably pick excitement, fatigue and relief! Those were definitely the three over riding emotions. It was good to get on the road again, though. I had been caught up far too long in corporatia and a desk bound job. As I sit in bed, dinner done, looking back on the last three days it finally hits me why I've always loved to be on the road alone- the connection between the road, my bike and me is an intensely personal one; a little like my concept of God. Its far too personal to comfortably share it with anyone else.
According to my odometer, I've travelled exactly 1100km in the last three days. Everything said and done, I think that's pretty impressive for someone who hasn't been on the road, on the bike, for a couple of years before this trip! Time to get some well deserved sleep now ;)
A few days back I chanced upon the little notebook that I carried with me on the trip and scribbled brief notes to myself in. To me it made interesting reading and allowed me to relive the trip and the accompanying excitement, fatigue and, eventually, relief on having made it to my destination two days after I started out.
For those of you who ride, yourselves, it might make interesting reading too, and bring back memories of similar trips you may have undertaken and similar emotions you may have experienced. I reproduce it below, slightly edited to make for easier reading, to record it for posterity if nothing else.
_____
DAY 1
9.45am
Start from Ahmedabad. Late as usual. Damn! The odometer reads at 10,440km
11.15am
First break at Himmatnagar. The roads were a breeze and the winter sun was out in full splendour. Perfect riding weather. The bike, though, took a while warming up to the task. Thankfully the cumbersomely tied rucksack has held fast to the luggage carrier. So far. Distance covered in this leg 90km. Odometer 10,530km
11.25am
Back on the road. Plan to keep riding until my butt and back give up, and then stop for lunch.
12.45pm
Lunch stop. Solitary dhaba somewhere on the way to Udaipur. The place doesn't even have a name and the proprieter seems less than amicable. Ah well. The insipid dal chawal doesn't do much for the system but its still fortification, right? Distance covered in this leg 90km. Odometer 10,620km
1.25pm
Sated. Almost. And back on the road. Full tilt ahead.
2.35pm
Chai stop. Another nameless place. The last several kilometers were terrible. The road, mostly. And, of course, the fatigue- on account of not having done this kind of riding for a while now. Butt and back are the epitome of agony. Change of plans- take a night halt at Udaipur about 10kms from here (as the chai shop guy informs me) and give my back a much deserved rest. Distance covered in this leg 80km. Odometer 10,700km
3.00pm
Longer break than I would've liked, but its back on the road for now. Thankfully Udaipur, and rest, is only a handful of kilometers away!
3.30pm
Udaipur! At last. Rest, sweet rest. Just checked into the Rani Palace Hotel near the center of town. The last 14kms were agony. And bad traffic, to boot. Who'd've thought this town boasts of so many vehicles?! Distance covered in this leg 14km. Odometer 10,714km
Haven't done anything like this for a couple of years now, and it shows. I've barely ridden 270 odd kilometers and my body's already in protest! Nothing an evening around town and a night's rest won't fix, though.
DAY 2
9.20am
I'm really out of practice; it took me almost 30 minutes to get my rucksack all trussed up on to the luggage carrier! Oh what I'd have given for a nice length of bungee cord instead of the cotton rope I'm using. The plan today is to get as far as Pushkar and call it a night. A stop at the Pink Floyd Cafe and Hotel should do me good. Their french onion soup is absolutely divine. So, up up and away...
9.55am
The cotton rope snapped! Within 20 kilometers of having started out! An unnecessary 20 minutes wasted getting it all up trussed up again. Distance covered in this leg 19km. Odometer 10,733km
11.16am
A longish stop for breakfast just off Nathdwara. The last hour was torture. Did all of 39kms in an entire hour. I don't think I've ridden much worse roads than these! Distance covered in this leg 39km. Odometer 10,772km
12.00noon
A couple of fags and just looking at the traffic go by is therapeutic. The dhaba guy tells me the road ahead is much better. Mad riding, here I come!
12.48pm
Three quarters of an hour and I don't see the road getting any better. Had to take this break to de-cramp my legs. Road, please get better! Distance covered in this leg 44km. Odometer 10,816km
2.48pm
Almost 2 hours of hard riding. Almost a hundred kilometers done. The road continues to harass me. This little dhaba just outside Jawaja seemed like a nice enough place to stop. And it is. The old guy sipping his tea and pufing away on a beedi is exceptionally chatty. Distance covered in this leg 94km. Odometer 10,910km
3.10pm
On the road again. Next stop Ajmer. Hopefully
4.30pm
A short stop just outside Ajmer. Figured it would be good before I enter the hustle and bustle of early evening town traffic. Distance covered in this leg 64km. Odometer 10,974km
5.30pm
Pushkar! And its beautiful in the winter evening light! Took me about an hour to get through the last 30 odd kilometers, which is par for the course, I suppose. Distance covered in this leg 37km. Odometer 11,011km
The hotel is just as I remember it from my last time here. Tucked away in a crowded nook and chock full of German and Israeli tourists. The winter evening air is refreshing and I certainly don't feel like I've ridden all day. Except for a mild reluctance to go anywhere near the bike, for today. The french onion soup was just as divine, as the last time around. The pasta and apple pie kinda hit the spot, too!
The other good thing is, of course, that I clocked a mildly healthy 300 kilometers today.
DAY 3
7.45am
Early start from Pushkar. Aim to make the most of the winter-morning sun. Also, quite some distance to cover before I hit Delhi. The guy at the hotel tells me I don't have to go back to Ajmer to rejoin NH8. In fact, there's a 70km stretch of newly built road that'll take me from Pushkar straight to the toll plaza on the Jaipur Expressway section of NH8. Does that mean my road troubles are finally over?
9.15am
Here I am, right outside the toll plaza, a shade over 70kms from Pushkar. The road was beautiful and I was tempted to push the bike to the max but the weather was even better. This trundling along bit in the winter sun is something I can get used to. Now for some breakfast. Distance covered in this leg 75km. Odometer 11,086km
9.50am
Fed and roaring to go. Expressway, here I come.
10.50am
Woohoo! That was good! Six lanes of uber-smooth tarmac, and a thumper between my thighs! Only an hour since I paid the toll and I'm already getting off the expressway towards the Jaipur bypass. The last 100 odd kilometers were the best road I've ever ridden on. Managed a top whack of 110kph but the euphoria was slightly dulled by the dude on the Yamaha R15 who zoomed past me like I was riding a bicycle! Distance covered in this leg 106km. Odometer 11,192km
1.00pm
Lunch stop at the Reliance outlet in the middle of nowhere. Or so it seems. Sure enough the roads went back to testing my patience the minute I got off the expressway! And they tell me this is the famed golden quadrilateral! Still, I think I made good time. Distance covered this leg 128km. Odometer 11,320km
2.00pm
Lunched and rested. The brief nap did me good. Ab Dilli door nahi ;)
3.40pm
Manesar, Haryana! Which means I'm spitting distance from Gurgaon, and then some to Delhi! The cigarette I'm smoking seems particularly sweet, and the sprite seems to have that extra zing! So close, now...
As an aside, you can never mistake Haryana for any other place. The difference is obvious the minute you cross the border from Rajasthan. The roads get a little bit rougher, the traffic a little bit wilder and the people a little more in-your-face than you've been used to for the last several hundred kilometers! Distance covered in this leg 100km. Odometer 11,420km
4.00pm
Last leg of the journey, one hopes. Its been brilliant so far, but very tiring. Perhaps I should do this more often, just to stay in shape...
5.00pm
I know I'm somewhere in New Delhi, but apart from that I'm hopelessly lost! The road signs, so far, have been less than helpful and everyone I've asked has had a different opinion on how I should get to Noida! I can't believe that after travelling a thousand kilometers, the last 50 are proving to be this painful...
6.15pm
I've ended up in Kalkaji, somehow. And even my painfully limited knowledge of the city tells me I'm on completely the wrong track. The traffic's absolutely the pits. My back is killing me and my patience is just about running out. I need deliverence. I need an angel to come show me the way to bloody Noida!
7.10pm
Noida! Finally! Blissfully! After much wandering over the last two and a half hours or so, I've finally made it. Thanks to the kind samaritan who rode with me all the way so I wouldn't keep getting lost. The sense of ecstasy, and relief, is indescribable. The pain is gone! I will get some food, shortly, and a bed to sleep in at night. As I stand here having a victory (sic) smoke I can make out the familiar sillhouette of Aby walking towards me. Distance covered in this leg 120km (!). Odometer 11,540km
If I had to pick three words to describe my last three days, I'd probably pick excitement, fatigue and relief! Those were definitely the three over riding emotions. It was good to get on the road again, though. I had been caught up far too long in corporatia and a desk bound job. As I sit in bed, dinner done, looking back on the last three days it finally hits me why I've always loved to be on the road alone- the connection between the road, my bike and me is an intensely personal one; a little like my concept of God. Its far too personal to comfortably share it with anyone else.
According to my odometer, I've travelled exactly 1100km in the last three days. Everything said and done, I think that's pretty impressive for someone who hasn't been on the road, on the bike, for a couple of years before this trip! Time to get some well deserved sleep now ;)
They say good blogging is about mixing it up, just a little. While posts about your profession aren't a strict no-no on your personal blog its nice to pad these up with other posts, on either side, of a more personal insinuation.
This is that post, sad excuse for one though it may be.
A song that's been playing on Aby's comp all morning. A song that seems to sum up my feelings about being broke at 30 ;)
Trailers for sale or rent
Rooms to let...fifty cents.
No phone, no pool, no pets
I ain't got no cigarettes
Ah, but..two hours of pushin' broom
Buys an eight by twelve four-bit room
I'm a man of means by no means
King of the road.
Third boxcar, midnight train
Destination...Bangor, Maine.
Old worn out suits and shoes,
I don't pay no union dues,
I smoke old stogies I have found
Short, but not too big around
I'm a man of means by no means
King of the road.
I know every engineer on every train
All of their children, and all of their names
And every handout in every town
And every lock that ain't locked
When no one's around.
I sing,
Trailers for sale or rent
Rooms to let, fifty cents
No phone, no pool, no pets
I ain't got no cigarettes
Ah, but, two hours of pushin' broom
Buys an eight by twelve four-bit room
I'm a man of means by no means
King of the road.
For people of a more visual persuasion, this is Roger Miller belting out the original, via YouTube-
This is that post, sad excuse for one though it may be.
A song that's been playing on Aby's comp all morning. A song that seems to sum up my feelings about being broke at 30 ;)
Trailers for sale or rent
Rooms to let...fifty cents.
No phone, no pool, no pets
I ain't got no cigarettes
Ah, but..two hours of pushin' broom
Buys an eight by twelve four-bit room
I'm a man of means by no means
King of the road.
Third boxcar, midnight train
Destination...Bangor, Maine.
Old worn out suits and shoes,
I don't pay no union dues,
I smoke old stogies I have found
Short, but not too big around
I'm a man of means by no means
King of the road.
I know every engineer on every train
All of their children, and all of their names
And every handout in every town
And every lock that ain't locked
When no one's around.
I sing,
Trailers for sale or rent
Rooms to let, fifty cents
No phone, no pool, no pets
I ain't got no cigarettes
Ah, but, two hours of pushin' broom
Buys an eight by twelve four-bit room
I'm a man of means by no means
King of the road.
For people of a more visual persuasion, this is Roger Miller belting out the original, via YouTube-
Lately we've been having a bit of an internal debate at designdaku- To spec or not to spec. Now I realise that this is a debate that's been going on for a while now; for as long as there's been young designers trying to make their own against established journeymen and masters, to be precise.
For those not in the know, spec work (or speculation work, to use the more descriptive term) is work done without the promise of financial remuneration.
The pros and cons are obvious- for a young designer, just starting out on his/ her career path, spec work signifies an opportunity to work with clients, big names who would otherwise have nothing to do with an alleged novice, and build up a solid portfolio; at least in the short term. For the established designer, however, spec work is, usually, more akin to that dull throb at the back of your head that's not quite a full blown headache but refuses to go away and stops you from getting any useful work done. It represents the apprentice's chance at getting away with the one-upmanship game.
To me, though, there's something more fundamental at play. In India, where most clients have to be educated about design and what it can bring to a business, the only commodity I can realistically charge the client for is my time. The time I spend devoting my mental faculties towards the solution/ resolution of the said client's problem. How, then, can my time be available without a cost attached to it if, in more cases than I'd like to count out, the only contribution to a project a client recognises is my time?
Doctors charge you to tell you what's wrong with you. Regardless of whether you choose to play along with their prescribed remedy. Service technicians charge you to tell you what's wrong with your mp3 player. Regardless of whether you'd like them to actually fix it for you. Every consultant I know, around the world, charges clients for their time.
I think its more than a little preposterous, then, for creative consultants to be asked to not charge for their time. I think its more than a little demeaning, for the design community, when designers fail to recognise this obvious fundamental and choose to sign away their right to charge the client to tell him what's wrong with his/ her business, or product, or service.
The single most worrying long term implication of spec work is the genuine danger of the client accepting it as the de-facto way of getting work done- a perfectly acceptable industry norm, so to speak. After all every novice, if he/ she sticks at it long enough, gets to be a journeyman and has to wear that dull throb that refuses to go away as some sort of initiation robe!
For those not in the know, spec work (or speculation work, to use the more descriptive term) is work done without the promise of financial remuneration.
The pros and cons are obvious- for a young designer, just starting out on his/ her career path, spec work signifies an opportunity to work with clients, big names who would otherwise have nothing to do with an alleged novice, and build up a solid portfolio; at least in the short term. For the established designer, however, spec work is, usually, more akin to that dull throb at the back of your head that's not quite a full blown headache but refuses to go away and stops you from getting any useful work done. It represents the apprentice's chance at getting away with the one-upmanship game.
To me, though, there's something more fundamental at play. In India, where most clients have to be educated about design and what it can bring to a business, the only commodity I can realistically charge the client for is my time. The time I spend devoting my mental faculties towards the solution/ resolution of the said client's problem. How, then, can my time be available without a cost attached to it if, in more cases than I'd like to count out, the only contribution to a project a client recognises is my time?
Doctors charge you to tell you what's wrong with you. Regardless of whether you choose to play along with their prescribed remedy. Service technicians charge you to tell you what's wrong with your mp3 player. Regardless of whether you'd like them to actually fix it for you. Every consultant I know, around the world, charges clients for their time.
I think its more than a little preposterous, then, for creative consultants to be asked to not charge for their time. I think its more than a little demeaning, for the design community, when designers fail to recognise this obvious fundamental and choose to sign away their right to charge the client to tell him what's wrong with his/ her business, or product, or service.
The single most worrying long term implication of spec work is the genuine danger of the client accepting it as the de-facto way of getting work done- a perfectly acceptable industry norm, so to speak. After all every novice, if he/ she sticks at it long enough, gets to be a journeyman and has to wear that dull throb that refuses to go away as some sort of initiation robe!
So the weather's been absolutely scrumptious these last few days. Not the best weather to get much work done, but then no one said the world was supposed to be perfect, eh?
We had to drive down to CP on Saturday to visit a client's site at the Statesman House and there were four of us and it was raining all the way and the radio was belting out rock from the 70s through to the 90s and it was perfect! Work barely took an hour which meant we had time enough for roadside bread pakodas, tikki sandwiches, chai and languid smokes a-plenty.
Aby was feeling exceptionally generous (the weather does that sometimes, dunnit?) so, broke as the rest of us were, we decided to head to Big Chill at Khan Market for dinner. Pity the place was overfull, and we had to settle for beer, spiced jamaican rum and pasta at Chona's, a couple of blocks down from Big Chill. After the build up we'd have been disappointed, but for the weather and Aby's largesse, of course.
I think my one tip to tourists jetting down to India for a holiday would be- visit us during the monsoons. As long as you're not bothered about being more than a little damp all the time you'll love it. The rain turns everything into one big, happy thingummy and you feel in love and there's dance in your bones and a song on your lips and you want to stop and kiss random pretty women on the streets.
Here's to the weather, then!
-----
Chilled Corona, with a slice of fresh-cut lemon and Captain Morgan Jamaican Spiced Rum are my two new favourites for the season. Cheers!
We had to drive down to CP on Saturday to visit a client's site at the Statesman House and there were four of us and it was raining all the way and the radio was belting out rock from the 70s through to the 90s and it was perfect! Work barely took an hour which meant we had time enough for roadside bread pakodas, tikki sandwiches, chai and languid smokes a-plenty.
Aby was feeling exceptionally generous (the weather does that sometimes, dunnit?) so, broke as the rest of us were, we decided to head to Big Chill at Khan Market for dinner. Pity the place was overfull, and we had to settle for beer, spiced jamaican rum and pasta at Chona's, a couple of blocks down from Big Chill. After the build up we'd have been disappointed, but for the weather and Aby's largesse, of course.
I think my one tip to tourists jetting down to India for a holiday would be- visit us during the monsoons. As long as you're not bothered about being more than a little damp all the time you'll love it. The rain turns everything into one big, happy thingummy and you feel in love and there's dance in your bones and a song on your lips and you want to stop and kiss random pretty women on the streets.
Here's to the weather, then!
-----
Chilled Corona, with a slice of fresh-cut lemon and Captain Morgan Jamaican Spiced Rum are my two new favourites for the season. Cheers!
The 1934 BMW R7.
And no, I'm not even going dream of thinking of asking how much it costs!
-----
Via The Cool Hunter
Second chances are beautiful things. They are full of hope, and the promise of redemption. A chance to fix all past mistakes, or in the very least, to not make the same old ones the second time around.
Wristcutters, based on Kneller's Happy Campers, a short story by Etgar Keret, follows the story of young, 20 something Zia (played by Patrick Fugit of Almost Famous fame), who slashes his own wrists following an unsuccessful relationship, and finds himself in some sort of purgatory afterlife peopled by, well, people who've taken their own lives. Everyone seems miserable, in purgatory, or at least passively resigned to their fate, and no one ever smiles here.
Panoramic shots of the bleak landscape, heavy post-processing and a succession of spaced out, resigned characters underscores the futility of the position Zia finds himself in. Having done himself in once, he's hardly likely to chance his, err, wrist again, is he?
The hopeless setting of the film, though, serves as a fitting background to tell a story of second chances; of having hope, seeking redemption and finding love, in the end. The icing on the cake, for me, was the million dollar smile Zia flashes at the camera right at the very end before the jump cut into whiteness.
Oh, and there's Shannyn Sossamon (also of A Knight's Tale fame) looking hot in an undernourished and anorexic kind of way. If you're into that kind of thing, of course...
_____
Graphic novel lovers check out Pizzeria Kamikaze, by Etgar Keret based on the same short story. And if you do get your hands on a copy let me know. I'd like to bum it off you for a few days. Sweetly, of course.
Pretty much everything I've done in life I've done because I wanted to, with nary a thought to what that looked like, or felt like, to the people in my life. So it's quite an ego bashing to admit that most of what I know, of myself as a lover, and I use that word in its broadest sense, I know through the eyes of the women who've been a part of my life over the years.
Mind you, I say most, not all. Still...
It is an interesting thought, though, that some parts of you are only visible, and comprehensible, when bounced off a significant other. Is this why most of us feel incomplete, at some primal level, unless we have a companion to share our lives with?
My last post, a week back, was about watching Before Sunrise, again after a long time. I followed it up with Before Sunset, which incidentally, I'd never seen before. What hit me the most was the contrast between the two meetings. While the first was full of hope, promise and expectation, the second had undercurrents of disappointment and rancour which finally boil over towards the end. The difference, I think, between being 20, and still making one's way in the world, and being 30, worldwise and cynical.
I don't think, though, that the movies, back to back, would have made as big an impression on me if the contrast hadn't resonated with my own life. I did not truly realise, until that point, how much I have changed in the last 10 years.
With one important difference, though. I believe I am happier, with myself and my life, now than I ever was at 20. And this is despite the cynicism and sense of been-there-done-that that seems to boil over every once in a while. Or perhaps, as a friend of mine mentioned in conversation the other day, though my troubles run deeper I am better equipped to be happy, inspite of them.
There is, however, a lingering sense of incompleteness that stands out, occasionally, in bas-relief especially at the end of a long, tiring day when I know there is no one waiting at home. Perhaps, though, what growing older teaches you is the non-immediacy of these lingering disappointments regardless of how looming and ominous they seem in the present circumstances.
C'est la vie...
Mind you, I say most, not all. Still...
It is an interesting thought, though, that some parts of you are only visible, and comprehensible, when bounced off a significant other. Is this why most of us feel incomplete, at some primal level, unless we have a companion to share our lives with?
My last post, a week back, was about watching Before Sunrise, again after a long time. I followed it up with Before Sunset, which incidentally, I'd never seen before. What hit me the most was the contrast between the two meetings. While the first was full of hope, promise and expectation, the second had undercurrents of disappointment and rancour which finally boil over towards the end. The difference, I think, between being 20, and still making one's way in the world, and being 30, worldwise and cynical.
I don't think, though, that the movies, back to back, would have made as big an impression on me if the contrast hadn't resonated with my own life. I did not truly realise, until that point, how much I have changed in the last 10 years.
With one important difference, though. I believe I am happier, with myself and my life, now than I ever was at 20. And this is despite the cynicism and sense of been-there-done-that that seems to boil over every once in a while. Or perhaps, as a friend of mine mentioned in conversation the other day, though my troubles run deeper I am better equipped to be happy, inspite of them.
There is, however, a lingering sense of incompleteness that stands out, occasionally, in bas-relief especially at the end of a long, tiring day when I know there is no one waiting at home. Perhaps, though, what growing older teaches you is the non-immediacy of these lingering disappointments regardless of how looming and ominous they seem in the present circumstances.
C'est la vie...
Daydream delusion, limousine eyelash
Oh baby with your pretty eyes
Drop a tear in my wineglass
Look at those big eyes
See what you mean to me
Sweet cakes and milkshakes
I'm a delusion angel
I'm a fantasy parade
I want you to know what I think
Don't want you to guess anymore
You have no idea where I came from
We have no idea where we are going
Lodged in life
Like branches in a river
Flowing downstream
Caught in the current
I carry you
You carry me
That's how it could be
Don't you know me?
Don't you know me, by now?
- David Jewell
From the film Before Sunrise
______
Trying to work out my thoughts enough to cobble together a post on what the film explores; self-fulfillment and self-discovery through a significant other. Would be interesting to see how that turns out, if that turns out...
Oh baby with your pretty eyes
Drop a tear in my wineglass
Look at those big eyes
See what you mean to me
Sweet cakes and milkshakes
I'm a delusion angel
I'm a fantasy parade
I want you to know what I think
Don't want you to guess anymore
You have no idea where I came from
We have no idea where we are going
Lodged in life
Like branches in a river
Flowing downstream
Caught in the current
I carry you
You carry me
That's how it could be
Don't you know me?
Don't you know me, by now?
- David Jewell
From the film Before Sunrise
______
Trying to work out my thoughts enough to cobble together a post on what the film explores; self-fulfillment and self-discovery through a significant other. Would be interesting to see how that turns out, if that turns out...
A long, late night drive from Noida to ITO along wide, empty roads (the chrome yellow of streetlights throbbing dully on the slick, tar-black roads) got Aby and me to SPA for Utopia, a couple of nights ago. It was really the best counterpoint to an otherwise uneventful weekend, recreation-wise.
Now SPA is a charming, old world type of institution and Utopia, its annual cultural fest is supposed to be one of those much awaited affairs, where anyone off the streets can walk in and partake of the revelry, only no one actually does. There are only, ever, a few handfuls of people in attendance- all of them students, most of them undergraduates, with far too much time on their hands to let an evening of music, weed and booze just go by.
So Utopia turns out to be charming and old world, much like the host institute, where everyone knows everyone and the music's mostly good, the booze mostly free and the weed... Well, the weed's just weed, isn't it?
And I realised, as I stood there semi-headbanging to (mostly) passably thrashed out metal played by young, amateur bands that made up for their lack of virtuosity with their abundant energy and enthusiasm and generously sprinkled doses of cuss words in the lyrics of their self-styled compositions, that this is, precisely, what I love about these gigs- the fact that everyone knows everyone, and that everyone's there to have a good time and there's booze and weed and good-natured banter, and there's music too and it doesn't matter if those guys on stage aren't the best in the business!
No professionally organised rock show, with top bill artists, can ever hope to evoke the same kind of magic. The bonhomie is, almost always, missing. And though the music may be good, nay- the best, its still not quite the same thing...
Perhaps that explains my frequent visits to CityPulse, when I was in Ahmedabad, to listen to Purple Flower playing their stock repertoire, weekend after weekend. I mean, yes, no one plays CCR better than CCR but then you wouldn't get to sit down and share a smoke and trade a few laughs with Fogerty right after he's finished playing Proud Mary, would you?
So that's the clincher, really- the sense of belonging. And even though the cops turned up at around 10.30 to put a stop to all the loudness and noise, people still hung about and chatted and smoked up and caught up on each other's lives. I'd like to think everyone had a good time, all things considered, and that's really all that matters, isn't it?
Now SPA is a charming, old world type of institution and Utopia, its annual cultural fest is supposed to be one of those much awaited affairs, where anyone off the streets can walk in and partake of the revelry, only no one actually does. There are only, ever, a few handfuls of people in attendance- all of them students, most of them undergraduates, with far too much time on their hands to let an evening of music, weed and booze just go by.
So Utopia turns out to be charming and old world, much like the host institute, where everyone knows everyone and the music's mostly good, the booze mostly free and the weed... Well, the weed's just weed, isn't it?
And I realised, as I stood there semi-headbanging to (mostly) passably thrashed out metal played by young, amateur bands that made up for their lack of virtuosity with their abundant energy and enthusiasm and generously sprinkled doses of cuss words in the lyrics of their self-styled compositions, that this is, precisely, what I love about these gigs- the fact that everyone knows everyone, and that everyone's there to have a good time and there's booze and weed and good-natured banter, and there's music too and it doesn't matter if those guys on stage aren't the best in the business!
No professionally organised rock show, with top bill artists, can ever hope to evoke the same kind of magic. The bonhomie is, almost always, missing. And though the music may be good, nay- the best, its still not quite the same thing...
Perhaps that explains my frequent visits to CityPulse, when I was in Ahmedabad, to listen to Purple Flower playing their stock repertoire, weekend after weekend. I mean, yes, no one plays CCR better than CCR but then you wouldn't get to sit down and share a smoke and trade a few laughs with Fogerty right after he's finished playing Proud Mary, would you?
So that's the clincher, really- the sense of belonging. And even though the cops turned up at around 10.30 to put a stop to all the loudness and noise, people still hung about and chatted and smoked up and caught up on each other's lives. I'd like to think everyone had a good time, all things considered, and that's really all that matters, isn't it?
This pretty little video reminds me somewhat, in a poor-man kind of way, of the early, pioneering work on pixilation by Norman McLaren. More importantly, to me, it highlights Marshall McLuhan's famous claim from the 1960s that forms the title of this post.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)